


Permanent

by Anonymous



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Incest, Jealousy, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Possessiveness, Scent Marking, UST, conditioning undertones, demonic behavior, hair cutting, mentions of eye trauma, post DMCV, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-02-27 11:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18738211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Five times Vergil made himself permanent in Nero's life, and one time Nero did in Vergil's.





	1. I. In Body

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to all the wonderful people in the discord, Reishi in particular who helped shape idea.  
> Because "Permanent" should be a Vergil/Nero Theme.

**I. In Body**

Vergil doesn't meet his son again until a year after finding out he had one. Dante had offered his office as a place to stay the moment they left hell, and he'd deliberated about it all thirty minutes until arriving and seeing the disgusting disrepair of the shop. Dante swore it had been the work of those crazy ladies, but Vergil doubted it. His vague memories as V don't bring credence to it, it was still a pigsty when he visited for the job.

That the demoness wearing his mother's skin and Lady had been there only demerits the offer more in Vergil's books. They seem happy by their arrival -something that has him immediately suspicious. More so when they insist that now one of them could put a leash on the kid.

Dante just storms away at the news, his scent a flurry of worry and self-recrimination. Vergil follows him, of course, more out of a desire to leave the office and the women than actual worry. The city is in perfect condition after all.

It is easy to find his son, and much easier to know what the ladies meant.  

Nero's fighting style had always been physical. Running up enemies, punching, kicking, slamming, punctuated with fatal grips. Perhaps even biting. A very vocal fighting style too. Crowing, laughing, mocking. But not it seemed to have matured.

Vergil narrows his eyes. No. Not matured. It has become deadlier, yes, - more swift even- but not mature. There's a fresh coyness in his fighting style now. A playful and yearning sway as he cleans the alley of demons so beneath his stature. Foolish prey baited closer. Almost like—

"It wasn't this bad when we first met" Dante mutters, eyes following his son artfully raising a leg and crushing an Empusa’s skull with his foot. Vergil considers if a father should blind someone looking at his son with such overt interest.

Perhaps his thinking isn't subtle, because his little brother raises his hands in surrender. 

It's not until Nero executes a Judecca on its knees point blank while crowing in delight that Dante sighs passing a hand down his face. "Alright. someone has to be the father here and tell Nero his way of fighting is pornographic.”

"Scandalized?" he asks airily. He doesn't remember Dante to be so easily flustered. Especially when he knew his little brother frequented places with scantily clad women and sex on the menu.

It is also very rewarding to watch his brother's speechless face. It makes him seem younger. "Aren't you?!" he yelps gesticulating to his son, the savagery of his moves, of beheading a newly trapped demon with his thighs alone. T is quite dangerous, yes. The blood that now paints his face and drenches his legs calls forth the greater instinct inside Vergil that lusts for a hunt.

"Wait...” Dante’s voice seems a bit far away. It’s the distressed tone in it that makes Vergil turn back and see the horror on his face. “…hold on. You _can't_ be serious!"

Vergil rolls his eyes. What is there that has his brother horrified? Nero’s style had always been risky. He will never understand what Dante thinks. Not even the year in hell, fighting and challenging each other was enough. Perhaps he never will. Another crack on the mirror image they once were.

He only saw it once during the heat of battle, but it was easy to notice the decidedly harpy flair on Nero's demon form. This type of overly physical, overly seductive form of fighting isn't much of a surprise. In fact, it is to be expected when the demon in question is single. What bothers him in earnest is his little brother's comment about not being nearly as bad when he first met his son.

It speaks of a lack of education. Of explaining demonic needs and behavior. Not that he ever expected his brother to be responsible. Not only was their demonic roots a tetchy subject he’d tried to foolishly ignore, but his office had been an unkempt mess when he’d visited as V. So unlike the garage where he took Yamato and Nero's arm. Even the van was clean and as orderly as possible, no matter the dire circumstances.

If Dante couldn’t take care of himself, he wouldn't take care of his son.

His _son_...

The concept is still foreign. But interestingly, a welcome one. An addition he hadn't realized was there. They are still strangers. Their blood relation barely something of worth - but it has potential. His blood flows through Nero's veins, but not his scent, and that's perhaps what has him frantic.

And it _is_ frantic. Past the first impression, Nero’s entire disposition is riddled with such a staggering amount of errors it makes his teeth itch. There’s urgency beneath the allure, unneeded tension before each swing, a hastiness on each dodge. There’s a sharp note of dissatisfaction on his scent along with a spot of longing that’s frankly unseemly in one such as his son. Though it does explain why he fights like he craves for something he can’t find, and tries to tear it into reality.

Nevertheless. This new style leaves too many openings. He cares not if whether out of ignorance or franticness. If his son wants to indulge, he will have to learn first how to properly do it and not fall prey to any sudden intruders. Like the Fury right behind him salivating and eager.

It didn’t even register to his son. How negligent.

This will be the first and last time he draws Yamato for his son.

“You have grown careless” he states flatly, as the Fury falls into clean cut pieces. "Care for a rematch, Nero?"

His son looks up, blue eyes blazing fury bright but his scent changes to something decidedly elated. Vergil narrows his eyes at the blatancy in that scent. Another thing he will have to teach his son.

Their spar is short and blistering. Vergil has grown during his time in hell, and the pathetic demon forms in this side are no learning challenge to his son. It's an easy victory, one that Vergil takes a small pleasure in. Especially when his son still stands, intently ready for another round.

Delightfully stubborn spawn.

Dante calls it short, no doubt trying to spare Nero’s pride. Vergil allows it for now, filing a note to never bring Dante with him again. He’s such a bleeding heart. His son has all of his limbs attached, and blood loss between devils is superfluous at worst.

Still. His son did good. He knows better than to voice it of course. It will not do to have his son grow cocky again. A pat on the head will work in lieu of words.

It too serves as a covert move to share a bit of his scent, have it permeate on Nero's hair. Vergil is aware of the minute tension and how his son relaxes when the scent hits him. It surprises him a little at how responsive his son is. Perhaps this behavior in particular is not a recent development.

It that case, an intervention is imperative. His son, so abhorrently ignorant of their heritage, doesn’t know what he is constantly broadcasting whenever he got physical in a fight –or worse, opened his legs to subdue another demon and turn the lock into a grip of death. Better for his son to carry a bit of Vergil’s scent whenever he goes on the hunt until he can control it by himself.

Dante is going to keep away. Vergil will bloodily make sure of it. Nero is his son, and he will not fall into the demonic charms of Dante. Not if Vergil has a say on it. His son urged thorough lessons on his demonic legacy, of the minutiae that Dante had forever ignored.

No. That is not to happen. Vergil is willing to plaster his name on Nero with a warning to Dante and the demoness wearing his mother’s skin if that is what it takes.

“You are playing a dangerous game,” Dante comments three months and seventy-eight spars with Nero later, not entirely cheerful, and in his eyes Vergil can still see the fire and need to protect Nero from Vergil. The flame that had feed the brashness of their encounter in the Qliphoth, in his handling of Nero.

They will never truly see eye to eye. Even as mirror images –even as mirrored hearts, what he’d done as V, as Urizen, as himself reborn… it had broken the glass, shattered in some places. He would never have his brother’s entire trust again… and as he’d found out, Vergil would never trust his brother completely.

He’d made of their relationship such a tapestry of broken shards, and he was going to live with a careful step for the rest of his life. He’d accepted the consequences, but with his son? He is going to do better.

Nero deserves it. Especially if he remains ignorant of the necessities his demonic blood broadcasted.

Ignorance is never an excuse to not reach one’s full potential.


	2. II. In Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~Vergil is not jealous~~

**II. In Mind**

There’s a faint scent of Kyrie when Nero enters Vergil’s flat. It’s not much, it barely lingers, but it’s enough to make his nose twitch. It’s raining outside, but it didn’t wash away the human’s scent from where she touched Nero’s long hair.

How unfortunate.

“Um… Hi, father,” Nero greets, shyly rubbing his nose. “Thank you for having me, I brought truffles” he adds gesturing the bag. “made them myself, so sorry if the dark chocolate is bitter.”

Vergil bites down a smile as he receives the package. His spawn, honestly. So delightfully thoughtful. Always eager to repair and seem grateful. He ignores from where he learned Vergil’s… predilection for dark chocolate, but ever since he brings handmade dark chocolate confectionaries. It is a source of pride and strange fondness to witness his son’s growth as aficionado chocolatier.

His good humor is cut short as Nero hangs his coat, revealing a long silver braid. That’s where Kyrie’s scent originates. The demon Vergil has always been roars beneath his skin, tail lashing, and he turns around walking to the pristine kitchen as if he’s bringing the truffles there and not escaping to regain control.

The gall of that _woman_.

He can study the braid from the kitchen isle. It is simple, nothing extraordinary about it except for the blatant claim it conveys. The scent is marginally stronger, being trapped in Nero’s clothes rubbed it off. It is of no consequence; the hair arrangement is a full affront.

He dislikes that woman. His son is enamored with her, even the devil blood inside him sings for her praise, but is left wanting. Not because of her rejection, but of what she cannot do –cannot provide. It’s enough of a problem that Nero broadcasts his eligibility in the hunt even though as human he is in a relationship with her.

She has a pure heart, kind and generous. But entirely too human. When he’s in a good mood, Vergil can admit his mother would have liked her. But Vergil has never been prone to good humor concerning anyone that encroached on his territory –and Nero is his.

She had even urged him to not hurt Nero again with the same breath she had welcomed him to her home. Vergil had wanted to laugh. That foolish woman. The only one that was currently hurting Nero was her –and would continue to be her.

So an extraction is imperative. Vergil has not doubt it will be a slow process. After all, given Nero’s level of attachment to the woman, he has to thread carefully while unraveling their closeness. He doesn’t need Dante’s warning in that respect. He is aware of the pitfalls, and that he should never harm her at all. Otherwise he would incur his son’s eternal wrath.

It will be a long process. But never a slow one. There is the risk the human woman could die before his plan was complete –and thus leaving a permanent mark on his son’s psyche.

That is not to be.

So, he started this. It had been by chance; an opportunity he took without looking back. Nero’s synchronization with his devil blood had deepened, enough that certain aspects of his demon remained from time to time even after going back to human.

It had never happened with him, or Dante. The spectral replicas of their sword was power they channeled. But Nero’s just… _remained._ A part of him is fascinated with the phenomenon. Demon blood always fed on human. Did having more of the latter enhance the grip of the former?

The spectral hands were the first sign. They remained after turning back to human and Nero didn’t care about them. He actively used them in the hunt. But he took exception with the long hair. Mostly because it had proven to be permanent unlike his wings which would fade after a few minutes.

Vergil had offered to cut his hair right then. Nero had accepted that first time and had been satisfied with the results. That had been the first step. It had taken months; one terrible mishap of the two human women not being able to cut Nero’s hair properly; some photos of Nero’s hair being used as a plaything for the orphans; and twelve more sessions of him cutting Nero’s hair for them to arrive here.

Here, with Nero willingly traveling out of Fortuna and into Vergil’s flat. He still took human transportation instead of flying. Vergil considers it a victory all the same. Nero endured a five-hour travel to Vergil’s home, his territory, just to get a haircut.

Perhaps for his son, this is just utilitarian. He might rationalize it as saving up on a barber, and avoid lying to his human woman. Vergil knows better of course. The language of demons is universal.

“Sit down, son,” he instructs gesturing to the minimalistic ottoman he purchased specifically for his son and this particular activity. “I have to unbraid it first.”

He doesn’t miss his son’s relief. It’s palpable, and thick in his scent. The demon beneath Vergil skin growls satisfied. Nero does as told with little complaining. He really must want the braid off and couldn’t say it to that woman’s face. Pity.

Vergil is proud in how the thick velvet of the ottoman is appreciated. It’s like clockwork. Every time he sits on it, Nero delights in the texture, even if he’s still shy and tries to make his brush and hold on the material as surreptitious as possible. It was a fine purchase, and just as he thought, dark blue suits his son. Especially when his long hair contrasts with it once untangled.

His son’s hair is brilliant. A soft shade of silver that grows white while in demon form. A tassel to fool and entice enemies, and yet soft to the touch. It carries Nero’s scent with it, painting whole rooms like the finest brush.

It is one of the places that carries Nero’s scent the strongest. It means it too can carry another’s scent. A simple brushing, and Nero’s hair will smell like Kyrie or one of the orphans. Vergil’s is stronger, he can erase it by softly patting his head.

But he doesn’t need to anymore.

Kyrie’s scent and braid is long gone. However, they aren’t here to erase her scent. They are here –Nero came to _him_ \- to cut it short and with it thwart the possibility of other demons to track him, enticed by that scent, while at the same time, claiming this space –Vergil’s large living room- as  _his_.

He’ll find silvery strands of hair for weeks, no matter how diligently he cleans his flat. One or two long strands will find themselves among the books cluttered in one coffee table near the corner. Or behind his favorite bottle of wine.

At the same time, his son will carry Vergil’s scent with him. Will forever associate his scent with the comfort and a place where he belongs.

He wonders what his son would think if he understood the implications. He prefers to wear the proofs of possession on his skin, in the form of bracelets and necklaces. It vexes him a little to see Kyrie’s claim hanging right on his son’s neck, seated perfectly between the small hole between his clavicles. It’s eye catching, and something in Vergil cinders displeased whenever he notices it.

But it’s fine. Objectively, that necklace is also the reminder of that woman’s limitations. Humans can only claim so much. They are limited. Vergil doesn’t need a physical claim on Nero’s skin when he’s already seeped beneath, when he’s made a breakthrough on Nero’s mind.

Because Vergil’s blood, the demon seed, flows through his son as well. Now that he’s grown attuned to it, it is impossible to ignore the other thing he allows Vergil to have. His instincts must scream at him whenever he does, and yet he quiets them with a conviction that intrigues Vergil.

He cuts Nero's hair with Yamato, his heirloom, the reason he took his arm away, the central focus of Vergil’s power, and the weapon he used in their first duel and the many bloody encounters that followed. Yet Nero lets himself be vulnerable, showing his neck and nape as an offering to Vergil's blade.

Nero immediately associates his hair and maintenance of it with Vergil, and offers his neck only to him. Doesn't let anyone touch it anymore. Subconsciously, he has accepted that his hair is Vergil's to tend. That his neck is Vergil’s to touch. That this vulnerable critical part of his body belongs to the demon that tore his arm, that shares his blood, that he helped revive, that feasted on the blood of thousands.

Dante would never let Vergil such an opening now. Never had, if he were honest. Even as kids, they had been mildly on the lookout for a possible prank. Not a malicious one, but a prank nonetheless.

Nero? Right now he could behead his son and he wouldn’t even notice until his head is rolling on the floor. A clean cut, painless and swift.  But even the thought of doing so is revolting to him, to the instincts burning beneath longing for power, dominance, and blood. All for a purpose that will never be betraying his son. Nero’s life is in his hands, and yet like this, Vergil has learned, so is his.

It’s an eternal test. Demon teeth gnashing beneath his skin, eager with predator focus, willing to test if he can survive this one loss. If he can bring the blood that is his, the soul that he made back in him. If he can cross this one line.

And as always, Nero’s claim of his whole living room silences them. Changes Vergil’s instinct to something tingling at the palm of his hands and the roof of his mouth. Not tender, because Vergil never has been, and tenderness died with an eight-year-old boy taking cover underneath demon guts. Just… _quiet_. Subtle.

Nero’s neck is clean, well-formed trapezius with an elegant slant, effortlessly supported by some clean-cut sternocleidomastoids, noticeable strong tension where tendon meets clavicle, and curves sensually into deltoids and worked shoulders. With the scent of Nero’s hair floating around them, it’s almost an invitation.

It should never be cut. It should be…

 _Ah_ , he realizes with crystal clear clarity for the first time since he opened his eyes again in a hell where mirrors reflected his greatest regrets and loses,  _I want this closeness forever._

With the realization, everything settles in place. He desires a life with Nero, his son, his future. It should have been easy; he should have noticed it before. The reason for his desire to be permanent, to create an everlasting mark on his son, to correct and teach through spars and blood. It came not from the thoughts for being _just_ a father.

He had lost his family once. He was abandoned once –though he now knew how wrong that statement was.

He will not allow that to happen again.

Vergil brushes Nero’s uncovered neck, thumb pressing lightly on his nape, trying to find each vertebrae by touch alone. Nero doesn’t tense, but instead leans imperceptivity forward, offering further room to study.

Here is trust. Here is surrendering.

How easy would it be to lean? To move his neck into position and bite down? Feast on flesh and blood and the trust so delicately offered? To share it with Nero? To guide him to his own feast of Vergil’s flesh?

Vergil vows to cherish them, and quietly claims them under his name forever.


	3. III. In Blood

**III. In Blood**

It is easy sometimes to forget that Nero does not possess the same durability he or his bother share. More human blood meant more demonic power, but the body is more mortal, softer, breaks easier. It heals slower, and sometimes there will be wounds too extensive to heal fast enough.

Vergil will not commit the same mistake twice.

"You need the blood" he reasons with the broken devil in his arms, his son,  _hisonsonsonson How dared they?!_  Nero's broken gasps reminds him of who deserves his attention now, and Vergil swears he will pay just retribution later. Yamato sings to bathe in the blood and life of the culprits, such a lovely blade, his empress. Vergil knows this will come to pass, only one ever withstood his fury, but even Mundus would cower before him now. Only torment, blazes, and death awaits those who dared to harm what’s his. But not yet.

Now he hushes Nero, one hand pushing him closer to his chest, arranging him better without a care on how bright blue blood seeps into his clothes. Once satisfied, he hums, fingers threading through long white hair. Nero has not changed ever since the attack. A true testament on how dire the circumstances. A grim reminder of what would happen if Nero changes back without healing enough.

Vergil's other hand unbuttons his vest, leaving one shoulder open. In all frankness, he is displeased with the situation but not the result. This was not how he ever envisioned establishing such intimate bond with his Nero, but he will not let the circumstances deny what he'd yearned for a long time. There will be time later to lead his son how to properly feed on his blood, to guide his neck, to teach him by example. But none will ever happen if Vergil doesn't act quickly.

They are safe for now, ensconced in a cleaned up grotto in Hell illuminated by a pool of Nero’s feathers around them. But in another King’s territory he knows better than to test it. Everything is a hostile territory in Hell and he’d forgotten the human world was no different.

Demons dared to intrude his home, his territory. This demonic alliance had brought forth hell witches and forces that broke through his carefully set barriers. Just the night Nero had asked if he could stay in his territory. Maybe Vergil hadn’t been as careful as he could with the wards. Maybe he should have broadened his matrix to include Nero in all levels. Perhaps he ought to have sacrificed more—

No.

Now isn’t the time to review what had failed. To mourn what he’d thought was safe.

Nero cries brokenly. His eyes may be damaged, leaking blood and blind, but his son is smart. He recognizes what he's touching, where Vergil is guiding him, what he's being asked to do. He stills and tries to back away pushing with his broken hand. His innocent human notions balking at the idea.

Vergil couldn’t care less about inane human limitations. He hardens his hold on Nero’s head, not unkindly, but a message: he will not admit any discussion in this matter.

"You need my blood to heal you," he instructs, voice even, ignoring the quickening of his pulse, the anticipation surging electric beneath his skin at the proximity of those fangs. There is a predator against his neck, fangs that will tear his throat open –and he’s inviting the damage. "drink it and make it your own."

There is one last moment of hesitation before Nero gives in with a shy trill and clings to him, long nails digging his clothes, his back. Vergil lets him, imagines for a moment how sweeter it would be in a sensual situation, in the safety of their home, of his bed and—

He pushes Nero's head, fangs first, against his neck, right on his pulsing carotid. "Drink, Nero."

Teeth pierce his skin roughened by necessity and the primal desire of survival. Vergil grunts but tolerates it. This is his blood, this is his choice and this is his Nero. Choices and freedom to act on them. That’s perhaps the greatest power he’s amassed.

Vergil smiles as he feels his blood flow into Nero, feels it permeating the devil’s soul. Vergil’s blood is enriched with the sacrifice of thousands, and now his son transforms it into his own feeding it to his power. Like this, silent and by necessity, he has made himself at home once again. Has made a new space in Nero for himself.

And Nero… he had never tasted human blood, had he? Had never fed on it, never found a necessity to, what with his on large reserves feeding his own. But this is fine too. If he son gained a hunger for it after this, Vergil would give. With the same vehemence he bloodied his son into submission in their spars, with the same thoroughness he cut his hair with gentle hands. 

Nero’s suctions grow milder. The clinging growing into a hold, hands extending on his back, strong but unthreatening. It reminds Vergil that in so many ways, whether by ignorance or his humanity, Nero is still plagued with such childlike innocent behavior. Precious little vulnerabilities that endear and worry him all the same.

Vergil feels when Nero has taken his fill, and is surprised when his son stops on his own with a sigh and surrendering to the soothing caresses. How perceptive, his spawn. Nero will live and rise up unharmed to become the raging storm he is in the hunt.

No small part of Vergil relaxes at the prospect –at having finally been able to resolutely save someone dear to his heart. He’s powerful enough. Finally. It’ll still take a few more minutes for the eyes to recover, but Vergil can wait. He’ll rain judgement upon the transgressors.

“Good brave spawn,” he soothes, fingers threading through long white hair, lips brushing one of Nero’s regrowing horns. Whatever intention the assailants have, this is going to be a trial by fire. If they get separated now, he has the reassurance that his blood will protect him. Keep Nero safe. Inside and out.

His father gave him Yamato, his heirloom. But Vergil does not have a powerful possession to present to his son. None aside from Yamato -with whom he will never part as long as he lives-and his blood.

Father had given him the Yamato for protection and power. Vergil gave his blood. Now it is up to Nero to harness and transcends his limitations.

And he will. Vergil has no doubt. No greater challenge than being trapped in a hell castle to enhance and mature their demonic legacy.

And it _is_ a legacy. From father to son and only them.

Nero shudders, wings flapping with renewed brightness and feathers. Beautiful, deadly. It won’t be long now, his son will rise stronger, ready for war and hell. Yamato sings elated and eager. Yes, her empress knows. She had a soft spot for their spawn, whether for being repaired by him, or for having delighted in his blood and power before Vergil retrieved her, he knows not. But her song is one of pride, of encouraging possessiveness. One that Vergil wholly echoes. By next dawn hell will relearn to cower before the Sparda line. Hell will regret ever trying to remind Vergil of the throne Urizen vacated.  

But now Nero rests in his arms, healing and vulnerable bright. Vergil brushes the hair on his face, and delights on how his son allows the dangerous contact. Such unhesitant trust. This is enough for now.

“Nero,” he whispers, cleaning the blood off his face, revealing the new scales, blue, tender, and lovely. “Once again, I’ll forever be in your blood.” He vows.   


	4. IV. In Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergil is possessive, Nero has some vices of his own.  
> Please pay attention to the tags.

**IV. In Heart**

 

There is much to recover and reconstruct in the wake of a demon invasion. Vergil hadn’t been there for The tower; hadn’t learned about Fortuna’s until well after it happened; and only came at the tail end of reparations from the Qliphoth’s. This is the first time he’s present for all of it. For the graves, for reconstruction, for cleaning up all remnant of demons that thought they could stay on this side with impunity.

It was not a Qliphoth scale, nor did it last as long. But a well-armed hell cavalcade can produce quite the impact in just forty hours.

His flat is gone. The entire building nothing but rubble. Not even the ottoman was salvageable. A good thing he had but a fraction of his collection stored in one place and money was no issue. He will have another house soon. One more carefully picked, better warded. He has the heart of a King of hell to  sacrifice to it after all.

For now, he rests in the Van. Nero had offered a home to him the moment he threw away his first devil arm in Dante’s shop. He’d made the proposition with a hint of finality that had intrigued Vergil. Not that he would have denied it given the alternative was to stay with Dante and their new guest. It had been a surprise to learn ‘home’ for his son meant the Van. Not that he begrudges it at all. It’s not that woman’s house and he knows himself too well to know it would end in disaster if she tries to challenge his claim on Nero.

The van is a well lived, well-kept place. Cramped, but comfortable enough for three people on a temporary stay, ensuring as much privacy as possible. Most importantly, it is saturated with Nero’s scent. There’s one spot that firmly belongs to Nico. But Vergil has no doubt this van is Nero’s territory. Which has proven more durable than Vergil’s own.

He knows it is not his son’s intention, but he takes the reprimand all the same.

Nero is currently resting face down on the van’s couch, long hair fanning out on his back, some of it falling like a silver waterfall on the floor. It’s been two weeks and his son hasn’t asked for a haircut. Vergil doesn’t know what to make of it. There’s a lot of unsaid truths between them.

Nero is aware of it too. If his stares and cover following of Vergil these past two weeks is anything to deduce. There had been time when he’s challenged his son, surprised him by returning his stares but Nero, tongue tied and minutely deflated turns away. It makes him itch, the monster beneath his skin hissing displeased at the retreat. Is his son expecting him to breach the subject first?

Why should he?

(Why shouldn’t he?)

What happened in hell—what Nero did, what Vergil did… Even _he_ knows they ought to have a conversation about it. This dancing around is testing his patience, spurning him to draw first blood and have this done with.

He had left Nero alone in the grotto, still not healed enough. But time had been dire, and he knew his son would pull through. Most of the healing was already done, and the grotto was safe. Nero had his weapons and Vergil’s blood, he would be fine. Dante had met Nero three times through the ordeal, but he always seemed to miss his son by pure chance. They never crossed paths again until the end.

They hadn’t even talked in the aftermath. Only mediating through Dante and his worry at the destruction his son had caused. But no private conversation had taken place just between them about blood, sacrifice and rejection. They seemed to had a surplus of intermediaries, Vergil had found. If not his twin, there had been Nico, one human from the army, one destitute hell prince and even that woman Kyrie interfering.

Not that it was different in the scarce moments when they were alone. If not complete silence like their current situation, all interactions were just inane polite and perfunctory conversations, greetings and directions. Not unkind as Nero made sure as a host that his guest is left wanting for nothing during his stay, lack of proper space notwithstanding, —but certainly nothing meaningful.   

Is Nero being stubborn in believing the one who speaks first looses? Vergil looks back at his son, there are no tense lines in his form, just one continuous curve of relaxation even if his son is resting in away that showcases splendid flexibility. Perhaps it’s just tiredness. Nero worked to the bone during the rescue efforts after returning from hell ignoring the hushes and mistrusts around him… and Vergil finds himself unusually guilty for the destruction caused, and Nero’s wounds.

Three time’s the charm, humans say. But they needed a fourth for confirmation. All demon hell invasion in the last thirty years have one thing in common: Vergil.

“Don’t even think ‘bout trying to leave,” Nero warns suddenly, turning his head, mismatched eyes pinning him. There’s anger in them, and a hint of fear in his scent – _that_ , more than anything else, halts his thoughts. “Whatever you think about this disaster being your fault is bullshit. They would have attacked were you here on in hell anyway,” he reasons, voice growing soft and adds rubbing his nose, “It’s because you were here we all could survive this. So don’t think I’ll let you leave.”

Vergil blinks, perplexed. For such an honest and direct kid, Nero always finds manners to convey his feelings sideways whenever he’s embarrassed. Is that what he wanted to say? What he wanted to talk about?

It is not what Vergil had thought, and certainly not what he needs to discuss with his son. Yet it warms his blood all the same. To know he remains welcome to his son –needed.

“Thank you, Nero.”

His son nods and turns around in the sofa, facing up, one hand studying his hair. Part of him wonders if maybe Nero will finally ask him to cut it short.

“That devil prince. Asmodeus?” his son asks instead, letting the strand of hair fall on his chest. “He said I’m one too. By virtue of being your  _son_.”

 _Ah_. Of course, he has more topics to breach. Even when he’d met him as V and Urizen, it was clear his son had a strong distaste for everything to do with demon hierarchy. None were worthy of respect, only prey and enemies to be hunted and felled –whether he was successful or not, that was a different story. To learn he was unknowingly part of the whole circle ought to be an unwanted surprise. Vergil is proud of Nero’s present control. He’d expected his son to be more emotional. Especially when the synchronization with his devil blood had grown to such a present extent.

“So it would seem,” Vergil agrees. Dante is one as well now. That’s the logical conclusion when two kings of hell join armies to try and wipe him out. Little brother finishes one King and gets another lofty crown for himself because Hell deals in killer keepers as a cardinal rule.

(Dante’s previous Crown is King Cerberus’, not Mundus’ like Vergil had assumed. His old jailer isn’t dead, just sealed away. He’s still displeased with the news. He knows _that_ is a future headache waiting to happen –and a tragedy too, if they aren’t prepared.)

Asmodeus, however, is no longer a prince. Unless Dante takes pity in the demon holed up in Devil May Cry and returns his noble class. Or, and here Vergil almost hisses in displeasure, he _finds_ a prince of his own to mate with.

There’s much to admire and covet in his son. Even relaxed on the couch, bare feet, hand on his stomach, he can’t conceal the menace stretching in his shadow. He is an indomitable beast. Proud and finally coming into his own. A wicked monster resting at the ready for blood and demise. He’s beautiful, like a mantis shrimp is beautiful. All alluring colors and curves, and the promise of death shining beneath each scale.

He can destroy an entire realm, and spare only the nestlings. Leave them alone in another to have a shot at survival. Reduce an entire hell landscape to ashes where nothing will ever grow again. None would ever know it is mercy what beasts in his core, what guide his decisions.

It makes him crueler.

And most importantly: powerful.

He approves of Nero’s ruthlessly utilitarian handling of Asmodeus. Forcing the prince to become a devil arm to replace Red Queen, and with him, slaying the demons sworn to him, and reducing his home to cinders. Only to later discard him as a whole destitute prince again at DMC without looking back.

Perhaps his son had seen it as a mercy, setting the prince free after doing his penance. But that kind of dispassionate handling will only entice and endear him to demons. A challenge for kings to declare themselves worthy. Or to best him into submission.

The mere thought of scum trying to covet for Nero’s attention makes his tail lash out.

“I don’t want to be your son,” Nero states suddenly, sitting on the couch.

The admission hurts more than what he expects. A swift cut to the tender flesh between Heart and lungs.

Vergil can't breathe. Though his mind is already running lightning fast on what to do. Plans forming tinted red with demon indignation and greed.

He knows with utmost surety that he won’t humor his son’s wishes. Won’t ever respect this one wish. Their connection is undeniable, and Vergil won’t let it go. Ever. It saddens him, yes, but he’s ready to force it down on his son.

He’s never been an entirely _good_ man, and this is his—

“Wait. That’s not—!” Nero’s flustered yelp breaks through the red fog in his mind. “Let me rephrase,” His spawn bargains sitting on the couch, rubbing his face, and the sharp notes of _embarrassment_ are prevalent on his scent. It confuses Vergil, enough to pause his machinations, enough to pay careful attention to Nero’s next words. “If I am to be a prince, I _don’t_ want it to be because something as arbitrary as being your son.”

The embarrassed notes are still present in Nero’s scent, and his gaze is sincere enough to silence a bit of his turmoil. Not all of it –it won’t ever be, not after Nero accidentally opened the door and showed him a danger he hadn’t thought was possible. But it suffices for now, manageable.

He will still override his son’s wishes if push comes to shove. But if the claim is invited? Vergil won’t need to twist his son’s arm, there won’t be unnecessary baggage in their claim.

“Never thought you would be interested in demon hierarchy,” Vergil comments loftily, unwilling to let any turmoil show, and delights in his spawn’s glower.

“A title because you’re someone’s son is worthless,” he dismisses with a careless hand wave. His mismatched eyes however, never left Vergil’s. The half-demon raises an eyebrow with interest. Is that a challenge he hears? Never one to favor nepotism, his son. He’s pleasantly surprised with it. 

Nero crosses his arms. “I haven’t killed any Kings, or sealed an emperor or destroyed a hell plant,” he enumerates, “and yet most high demons gave me some speech and whatnot because I was your son”

This defiant complaint is entirely amusing. “Higher breed devils know the basics of respect”

“They didn’t even know who I was. I hadn’t earned a reputation for myself,” Nero insists moodily, as if Vergil was deliberately missing the entire point “Children have no say on what their parents do. Only benefit or suffer from them.”

The chuckle that escapes his mouth is a bitter sardonic thing. Entirely at odds with his interest on what his spawn desires, what possible new bond he wants to make between them. It hit too close to home, their legacy as Sparda’s kin is inerasable and a source of both pride and suffering.

“You are worked up over such little a thing?” he asks scathingly. Sparda’s legacy aside. No demon worth its salt will ever question Nero’s prowess on its own merits. That his spawn still questions his place, that he perceives he’s always looking at their back…

Foolishness if he’s ever witnessed one. It reminds Vergil of his own blindness and desperation. Nero has the potential to surpass them both. It’s not a theory, this last hell incursion made it clear.

But he cannot grow if he continues to make such fatal mistakes –and just the reminder of it sours his demeanor instantly. “Need I remind you had the chance to kill King Balam and forfeited it?” he asks carefully keeping fangs and pointy teeth away from each word. If this is all Nero wants to talk about, Vergil is ready to air his own, far more pressing, grievances.

Nero shakes his head. "Who said I wanted to be King? You and Dante get dragged into all sort of crazy things and I get dragged along-"

"When you aren't jumping headfirst into them" Vergil points out part because he won't allow his son to ignore one of his terrible flaws, and partly because he loves details, is an asshole, and Nero's angry huff is delightful. It earns him an eye roll this time

"Someone has to keep the both of you in check," he demurs exasperated and continues without missing a beat "But there _is_ another way I can be prince. One I can choose."

The realization lights his blood scalding fast, the demon he is beneath his skin snarls territorial and possessive and it is only Vergil's masterful self-control that only allows a displeased hiss to escape. "Dante..."

"I meant you." Nero drops the bomb with the same resolution he stands up from the sofa and goes to him. It barely takes two steps to reach him, but Vergil misses no detail of his son.

The naked feet, the effortless sway of hips as he stalks forward, how the tendons in his exposed neck tense slightly as he leans forward, one had on the table. Vergil's vision resumes to Nero, his enticing scent, the willingness in those mismatched eyes and the hint of clavicles displayed by the long sleeved shirt he's currently wearing —it dares him to bite. His spawn smiles, and cocks his head the movements sinuous and fluid, just like his long hair falling down his shoulder. It’s a bait, Vergil is well aware of it, but remains appreciative all the same.

“They went here to take you,” Nero says with a tone reminiscent of their first conversation atop the Qliphoth, something crosses his eyes so fast that Vergil can’t catch it, and leans forward going right through his personal space until they are face to face. “They wanted to kick you out of whatever throne you had. I won’t let that happen again.”  

Vergil knows his son enough to understand without the need of probing his spawn’s scent that such statement is not a promise. That is a _vow_.

It lights something beneath his skin that’s warm and disgustingly tender. It tastes like hope, and the remnants of a boy that has been dead and buried and not the man he is today –and thus Vergil will continue to ignore it.

Instead he marvels at a puzzle complete. His spawn, a protector through and through. And yet, even with the promise of power on his skin, Vergil realizes his son is so _young_.

A vow of protection and asking permission to be by his side. He might think he knows what he’s asking for, while ignoring that demons deal relationships in terms far different than humans. Still naïve, his spawn.

This recent conflict matured Nero, that is undeniable. Vergil was present for none of it. Only his blood, and the traps his son made. And his brother’s silence as he took in a hell landscape so devastated nothing would ever grow again. But such statements still demonstrate his lack of knowledge about demon behavior. The fact that he still hasn’t managed to keep his appearance under control only corroborates it.

Vergil can only make himself an idea of how many high-order demon hearts his son ate during the whole ordeal. Enough, is his most conservative guess. Enough to keep his demon form for longer; enough to regrow limbs without flinching; enough to burn down a hell palace to cinders; enough to instill some humanity in a hell prince; enough to have one eye permanently changed and for the red lines on his face to remain even in human form.

Though the last one might as well be a result of Vergil’s blood and no demon hearts. Or having more human blood to consume.

Yet his son is still naïve enough to believe this is a good way to accomplish what he wants –what he truly desires. Vergil doesn’t know whether to take the opportunity between his claws and never let it go, or reprimand his son for such delicious ingenuity offered so openly to him. He chooses to prod instead. “Is a title earned by laying with someone worthier than one given by blood?”

Nero huffs, but doesn’t cross his arms. “I don’t want to _lay_ with someone else,” Nero’s honest admission freezes him, or perhaps is just the soft touch of their finger pads entwining on the table. “I only you. Only want to protect you.”

Vergil raises an eyebrow skeptic. “Oh?” he mocks, trapping those wandering fingertips. It’s a warning as much as it is a statement: those fingers won’t return to Nero without bearing Vergil’s mark. “And not Dante, those women, or the human children you look after?” He digs in, because Vergil will not stand his son lying to his face –and wanting to protect only Vergil is a crass lie.

“Yeah, I will protect them too. They are family and I love them as well,” he declares with a shrug, but Vergil fixates in those last words, on the admission his son slipped by. The monster beneath his skin rears its head with predatory quickness, maw open, drooling _yearning_. His son might have noticed, because his smile grows a tad bit warmer, cheeks rosy, and he leans closer, whispering “But it’s different with you. And I want to be there, be here, with you, father.”

Vergil stares, transfixed. _Love_. All of his, because of love.

Nero hasn’t been more quintessentially human than now. How foolish are the humans they surround themselves with, that believe his son is anything but just by appearance? His hair might be long, one eye may be changed, there might be lines on his face, but the soul that beats beneath, the core of his intentions is so human it makes his teeth itch for a bite.

Still, he stops his son’s advances with soft finger on parted lips. He can see the minute disappointment glowing in those eyes, and soothes it with a soft brush on those lips as he moves to gently cup his jaw.

“If you do this, you will not go back to that human girl,” he warns evenly. “I am not partial to share, nor prone to be flexible in my claims.”

He has never been generous in sharing his affections. Never was with his family, with Dante and it runs deeper with Nero, his _son_. It’s the drop of humanity in Vergil that begs him to warn before Nero crosses the line. No matter how many demon hearts he’s eaten, no matter his current appearance, Nero is still too human. Three quarters too much at times. Vergil won’t have patience, nor mercy, for any hesitance or regret thereafter. 

His Nero needs to understand that if he yields and kisses him, he'd better forget about going back to the human girl. Because Vergil is permanent, not prone to share, and that is the point of no return. The arms that will welcome his son will close and shackle the moment he is in them.

No more dancing around. Just one perpetual claim –and the only mercy he’ll ever give his son is the fair understanding on what he’s getting into.

“I’m still going to work at the orphanage,” Nero states in challenge with a smile that’s mostly fangs but Vergil lets it slide for now. There’s no reason to forbid Nero from enjoying his time with children and humanity. They will grow, become estranged and eventually die. Or, they might be killed and his son would become a far more wonderful demon, burning the world to cinders. As below so above.

 _Ah_ , but he only did that for _true_ family, did he not? He might still regard humans as an object for compassion and worth protecting.

Anyhow, Nero wouldn’t be the demon he is today without that humanly virtue as his core –and Vergil doesn’t want it gone so soon. The innocence and compassion that’s buried deep beneath his skin and the monster that trills for violence, for a hunt, for the destruction of entire hell realms. That part of his son flows in his veins along Vergil’s blood. And Vergil wants his son whole.

No. Visiting those children offers much to gain. He tightens his hold on Nero’s chin. “It’s not them whom I speak of.” He warns, because orphans are no danger, but the woman that houses them is entirely different.

“I won’t live with her anymore,” Nero confirms. As if they hadn’t been destitute for two weeks, even if Nero’s territory is intact. As if Nero wouldn’t mind living in his cramped mobile territory for the rest of his life. “But I haven’t fancied Kyrie for quite a while.”

That last piece of information is reassuring. He already suspected so. He had planned to test the boundaries that ill-fated night. The confirmation spurs him on, and tightening his hold on Nero’s neck, pulls his spawn closer.

Nero allows it, following his guidance. So sweet his son, trusting that's all Vergil will demand. That he has no other reservations, other untold truths and grievances. So unsuspecting. It's a mere child's play slamming him against the opposing wall of the Van by his neck, back arched by the sofa's backrest.

Nero bears his fangs as he should, two pairs of bioluminescent wings ready to tear. But not yet. Vergil is ready to wreck this van to get his point across. "And another thing" he begins calmly, but his son's eyes zero on the fury hidden beneath word. Ah, his spawn, always clever. "You let King Balam eat your arm." he accuses, finally letting his displeasure free.

Nero narrows his eyes, but he can see the confusion in that blue and golden stare. "Well yeah. The coward was about to escape by a portal. It’s not like it wouldn’t grow back. I knew you would track him down and end him if he had something of mine. I had a demon castle to—”

Vergil tightens his hold warningly. "You are not understanding me, son. _You_ let a mere King eat a part of you. Shared your blood and flesh with unworthy scum." The moment he'd realized it... the sheer terror and grief of having lost his son for good to a worthless devil King had transformed into eternal fury. So much so that he doesn’t remember very well what happened in the fight, only the King’s beating heart bleeding in his hand, and Balam's remains turned to ash and death with no return.

"He was worthless" Nero agrees with a smirk. "I was just incentivizing his bloody demise"

He narrows his eyes, and his tail wants to lash out, at everything. He won’t let his son get the satisfaction of seeing how riled up he currently is. Vergil can feel his teeth sharpening, wanting to bite his son into submission and apologies. The mere _gall_ of his _child_. "You used me, and the blood _I_ gave you." he hisses, and the temperature in the van sizzles up.

"Kings kill Kings," Nero explains, eyes shining, voice turning into something else. " _Your_ blood lead him to his permanent downfall, and helped me raze that castle in hell."

There's a dark promise in his voice, a knot of turbulence that Vergil knows it’s not human at all, and was fed by enough demon general's hearts for Nero to shape them as his own. It reminds Vergil of leveled grounds, of a Hell castle reduced to cinders, brought to nothing but rubble and silence. "Nero—"

His son grabs his hand lighting fast, freeing himself from the hold only to place a kiss on Vergil’s palm, muffling "They hurt you."

Vergil stills, but forces himself to not tense as Nero looks back at him through his eyelashes, turning his head to rest his cheek against the opened palm and he slides down into the sofa. "they attacked _home_ and our _family_." he insists, both eyes now golden, hypnotizing, just like the slow falling his hair behind him, and the few tresses painting his throat. "The Kings were your prey. I was going to send a message."

So innocent and young. Always worrying for others. Stubborn protector, not caring about his wounds and ready to destroy for the pain of others precious to him. Vergil had let this foolishness run rampant enough. It was time to set things straight.

"They almost _killed_ you!” He scolds, voice deep with the demon beneath his skin. It’s a nightmare he won’t ever admit to have. The illusion of Nero’s frail body disintegrating in his arms, of heartbeats growing faint, of Nero losing his demon form and dying as a human on Vergil’s helpless arms. He gave his blood for one purpose, he bled and made a gift for his son –how _dared_ he? “I gave _my_ blood to you for your _survival_ and you gave it away."

His son blinks surprised, understanding finally dawning on him. Vergil doesn’t feel charitable enough.

"You won't go back to that woman," he demands with a low hiss while cupping his chin. If his son wants _him_ he needs to understand the kind of monster he desires to share his soul with. "and you will never throw away the presents I gift you."

He can feel Nero swallow, his eyes look gloomy, and there's a mix of guilt and sadness in his scent. His thoughtful spawn, never one to fear what Vergil could do, what turbulent desires laid quieted beneath Vergil's control. Only ashamed of the fault he unconsciously made.

"I’m sorry. I did not think—"

Vergil breathes sharply, sliding his hand in a slow caress to his son's neck, slowly placating. "I know," he admits, pulling him close. He wonders when did his son start to think any part of his body was expendable and decides it matters not. He will make sure this particular lesson sticks. "There is still much to teach you, my son."

Instantaneously Nero narrows his eyes. “I am not just your son.”

“You will always be _my_ son,” he reminds, because blood calls to blood. This first bond is important, the root of all their branches and entanglements.

“But I am far more than just that, Father,” he corrects softly, all warm edges and honey sweet. A trap Vergil deciphers a second too late and lands him in the couch, positions reversed with Glowing wings caging them.

Nero’s eyes glow with the same intensity of his wings. His long hair brushes Vergil’s knees, and it frames his son’s face harmoniously, makes the scowl menacing. Vergil is certain this was the sight many demons witnessed last. Dangerous monster indeed. He will humor this turn of events for now -comfortable in the knowledge he can break free of this hold, can destroy Nero’s territory and whisk him away and permanently trap him in Vergil’s own at any time- and see what his clever son is planning.

Nero narrows his eyes, and continues with a low snarl so different from the honey warm of his first words. “…and if you ever leave or abandon me again I will hunt you down, father. I won't _ever_ forgive you.”

Vergil blinks, but his mind immediately produces the instances where he left his son behind in order to finish personal business –where Nero was left alone. The fury as the one laced with that last promise is not a recent thing, it is a product marinated with time and repeated actions.

Perhaps their most recent separation was the breaking point. They had become separated not soon after he shared his blood. Had his son thought he was abandoning him? Vergil too knows the wound inflicted upon believing to be abandoned.

There is no ploy, no hidden meaning when he promises, “Never again.”

Nero shudders, a whole body thing that sends a few feathers adrift and only then Vergil can smell the potent notes of fear in Nero’s furious scent. It snags his instincts on hunting alertness. _You did this,_ he thinks and it is entirely a human reproachful jab.

Nero breathes harshly.

“And if you ever threaten to do so—!” His son barks, ragged and wounded, looking somewhere on Vergil’s chest. As if he couldn’t keep looking at Vergil, as if he could find a trace of dishonesty in his words. As if finding any trace of them would shatter him.

Vergil studies it all, commits it to memory. This little frailty belongs to him now.

Vergil twists one generous strand of silver hair around his fingers and tugs his son closer, tips his chin so they are looking at each other. Eye to eye, and smiles. “I won’t ever do that.” He confirms, and Nero’s faces opens before him, sweet and hopeful and entirely too trusting.

Vergil will kill for it.

The first kiss is devoid of softness. Demons are not known for it. There’s too much power sizzling between them for it to be otherwise. It gnaws with the intensity of hunger and base satisfaction. It is more a mauling than a meeting of lips. A surrendering and acceptance of a bond. A sealing of a claim.

It’s entirely instinctual, the way he pulls his son closer; the way Nero straddles him; the way he bites his son’s lips and conquers his mouth and tongue until his son finally gives with a reverberating trill.

Nero’s blood is divine.

Entirely too human, with an undercurrent of demon power that is entirely Nero’s sharp, addicting and nourishing flavor. A balanced mix, aged and matured giving the flavor depth and balance, unlike his feathers. It is unequivocally Nero’s blood, devoid of any foreign demon heart traces. Only a faint trace of Vergil’s blood in it.

He licks his lips clean, wipes the blood flowing out Nero’s nicked lower lip and licks his finger clean as well. Nero swallows, golden eyes following each move and Vergil presents him with predator’s smile.

His son doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t quiver like prey. He is alight with a desire Vergil mirrors. With a need to pull closer, to sear this moment in their memories and bodies. Nero gasps when Vergil’s teeth finally worry on one inviting clavicle. It’s an almost inaudible sound, and his instincts zero on it with predator precision, yearning to elicit more.

Nero arches beneath his teeth a taut line that flows from his back and spread to the deadly tips of his wings. The tantalizing perfume of arousal and pleasure sweetening the air between them. There’s a rush of smugness in his veins so strong it inebriates him for a single glorious second. There will be a repeat of that, he swears to himself.

His son sags a little, one hand massaging the back of Vergil’s hair and he complies, letting go of the clavicle with one last nip. It is Nero who cups his face now, who leans forward, but the kiss he dons is feather soft to the corner of his lips.

Time stops.

Something in Vergil _yowls._ He’s barely aware on pulling his son, on forcing him on his lap, of friction and one clawed hand knotted in long silver hair. He claims Nero’s mouth with hunger that has nothing to do with his untouched neck and everything to do with pleasure and urgency to make this one _stay_.

Nero clings to him, answering with a frenzy equal to his own. 

 _Ah_ , he concludes pleased, with Nero’s blood on his tongue, Nero’s tremble of pleasure beneath his fingers and bioluminescent feathers raining on them, _this one’s heart is mine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. Some things happened IRL and threw me out of the funk. Hope you all enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> Also I find it funny that all of Nero's themes are about absolute annihilation, an unstoppable force of death and destruction so terrifying his mere mention should be a warning… and yet his fighting style and actions aren’t as destructive compared to Dante or Vergil. So I decided to change that :3c.


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